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Books for the Children of Mary 


THE STORY OF 
A MISSION INDIAN 

OR 

SUNSHINE IN A DARK PLACE 
BY 

KATHRYN WALLACE 



BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 
C!)e pmci 

1904 


Copyright 1904 by Kathryn WallacR 
All rights reserved. 


LIBRARY of CONQRtSS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 10 1904 

Soiwrlint Entry 

oo/rW 



PRINTED AT 
THE GORHAM PRESS 
BOSTON, U. S. A. 


PEEPACE 


T O teach children any great truth it is 
important to commence by touching 
their hearts and sensibilities. This 
also applies in a measure to the man or 
woman of mature years. Nothing can be 
happier than the circumstances given in 
this little story of how two everyday boys 
— one a little Indian — should with simple, 
childlike faith kneel to Mary, the Queen of 
Heaven, for favors which no earthly being 
could bring about. When man finds neither 
sympathy nor consolation among his fellows, 
he instinctively conjures up the beings of 
a better world and seeks from them that 
succor which society either will not or can- 
not give. Of this we have a remarkable 
proof in the conduct of the Indians when 
oppressed by the first Portuguese Viceroys. 
These unarmed and inoffensive people, find- 
ing neither protection nor support from the 
successor of D ’Albuquerque, sat down as 
suppliants before the tomb of that great 
man, to demand from the illustrious dead 
that justice which the living would not 


IV 


PEEFACE 


grant either to their rights or their prayers. 
This is an illustration of how the human 
heart turns to the spiritual for help and 
comfort when earthly things fail. With 
simple, childlike faith the Mission Indians 
accepted the teachings of the Catholic 
church, with regard to the beauty, purity, 
and exalted dignity of the mother of Christ. 
Everywhere in their hiunble adobe huts 
was found an image of Mary bedecked 
with gaudy trappings. To be sure, their 
tastes were not always artistic, lout it 
showed their devotion and love for the dear 
mother. Our little story is about the Mis- 
sion Indians, telling of the spirit of love 
and piety in which a little Indian boy ad- 
dressed the Blessed Mother and how soon 
his prayer was answered. It makes little 
difference where we open the record in the 
history of the American Indian, every page 
and every year has its dark stain. The 
story of one tribe is the story of all, varied 
only by differences in time and place; all 
point to the greed and injustice of the white 
man. The Mission Indians (as they were 
called in California) date back nearly two 
hundred years, when the Franciscan Fath- 
ers came to them armed only with the cruci- 







PEEFACE 


V 


fix, penetrated the country, winning the 
love and veneration of the Indians, while 
the Americans came armed with guns and 
bayonets, driving away like dogs the In- 
dians who by right were masters of the soil. 
In 1848, by the treaty of Guadalupe Hi- 
dalgo, the Mission Indians were made sub- 
jects of the United States. At that time 
they were so far civilized and educated by 
the Franciscan Fathers that they were the 
chief dependence of the Mexican and white 
settlers for all service in or out of doors. 
These same Mission Indians had built all 
the houses in the country, planted all the 
fields and vineyards. Under the super- 
vision of the Franciscan Fathers they were 
taught all laborious occupations known to 
civilized society. The intentions of the 
Mexican government were just and wise 
towards the Indians, but what shall we say 
of the United States'? In 1830, says the 
Hon. B. H. Wilson in his report to the In- 
terior, There were twenty-one missions of 
the Franciscan Fathers in California and 
over thirty thousand Indians living com- 
fortable and industrious under the control 
of the Franciscan Fathers. The vast prop- 
erty and estates of the missions was too 


VI 


PREFACE 


great a temptation for human greed and 
rapacity, especially in such a time of revo- 
lution and misrule. The history of this 
period is a shameful record of fraud and 
pillage, of which the poor Indians were the 
hapless victims. From these cruelties they 
fled by hundreds, returning to their old wil- 
derness homes. Those who remained in the 
Pueblos became constantly more and more 
demoralized, and were subjected to every 
form of outrage. Whole streets in Los An- 
geles were full of grog-shops, every Satur- 
day night the town was full of Indians in 
every stage of intoxication. Then, when 
helpless and insensible, they were carried 
to the jails and locked up, and on Monday 
morning bound out to the highest bidder at 
the jail gates.’’ These civilized methods of 
the whites brought to the poor Indian suf- 
fering, disease, and vice, which have nearly 
destroyed a race of men whom historians 
have said were the very noblest type of all 
heathen races. The Franciscans had fully 
demonstrated the capacity of the Indian 
for the acquisition of civilized habits, their 
extensive vineyards and large tracts of 
land had been cultivated solely by In- 
dian labor. By this humane system of 


PEEFACE 


vii 

teaching, under the guidance of the Cath- 
olic church, many hostile tribes had been 
subdued without shot or shell, and enabled 
not only to support themselves, but to ren- 
der the missions highly profitable establish- 
ments. With this evidence before them, 
how dare the Americans treat the Indians 
so shamefully'? It has been well called the 
dishonor of a century.’’ We read in Har- 
per's Magazine that in the year 1837 
thirty-one thousand Indians still lingered 
in peace and plenty, but that very same 
year Father Saria died of starvation and 
want as he strove to say mass at the altar of 
our ‘ Lady of the Solitude, ’ where for thirty 
years he had offered mass. In 1840 at 
Nome Cult Valley more than two hundred 
Indians were cruelly slaughtered by the 
whites. Armed parties went to the ranches 
in open day, when no evil was apprehended, 
and shot down the Indians, weak, harmless, 
and defenseless as they were. After the 
whites achieved this brave exploit they ap- 
pealed to the government for aid. During 
the winter of 1859 a number of Indians 
were gathered at Humboldt. The whites 
thought this a favorable time for getting 
rid of them altogether, so they went in a 


Vlll 


PEEFACE 


body to the Indian camp during the night, 
when the poor wretches were asleep, shot 
all, even helpless women and children, on 
the first onslaught, and then cut the throats 
of the remainder. Very few escaped alive. 
There lay the Indian weltering in his blood, 
telling a tale of horror to the whole civilized 
world. (The above is taken from Har- 
per’s Magazine of 1861, page 307.) Oh, 
shame! shame! that white men should do 
this thing with impunity in a civilized coun- 
try, under the eyes of an enlightened gov- 
ernment, and under the fiag of the so-called 
brave and free. Even today Americans are 
driving to utter extermination the Indian 
race. One asks what right have Americans 
to criticize the Spaniards in their govern- 
ment of the Eastern or Western Islands? 

Who, we ask, has the true claim to the 
ownership of North America? The Indian 
steps noiselessly forward and says. It is I; 
for ages immemorial my fathers fished in 
these waters, or struck down the game in 
these undesecrated forests. We conquered 
and we roamed from the mighty ocean to 
the mysterious great lakes.” 

The Indian, without doubt, was the olden 
Lord of the North American Continent. 


PREFACE 


IX 


Reverence and justice are due the brave 
and daring red man ; we owe him reverence 
deep and mute as himself, he who is now 
almost silent. They were, historians tell us, 
the noblest type of all heathen races, not 
only brave and daring, but haughty, hand- 
some, and adventurous. Readily they for- 
sook their nomadic life to gather into little 
villages and live by tillage of the soil and 
take on, as far as their nature could, the 
good ways of the white man. They learned 
to hush the warwhoop and sheath the scalp- 
ing-knife. The brave Indian will soon be 
but a memory, and our opportunity to keep 
faith with him, to be just and generous in 
our dealings with him, will have passed by 
forever. It is amazing that we find the 
same old, old tradition among the Indian 
race that has forever brought comfort to 
the children of men, that consoling tradi- 
tion handed down from father to son — that 
a virgin’s son should come to earth and 
bring redemption and happiness. One In- 
dian word that expressed their idea of the 
coming Christ was the word Messon, which 
we love to think of as our own word Mes- 
siah. The pagan savages called the Cath- 
olics Marians because of loving and teach- 


X 


PKEFACE 


ing of the Blessed Mother Mary. The 
Indians were quick to love and honor the 
name of Mary the mother of Christ, be- 
cause she was the fulfillment of their beloved 
tradition. Above all, the Indian women 
looked up from their debasement to this 
glorified model of womanhood and besought 
her followers on earth to teach them the 
way of perfection. Nor less did the tall 
warrior swear himself to her service, under 
the banner of the Catholic missionary. The 
wisest spoke her praises by the campfires of 
his tent, the bravest crowned his dusky 
forehead with stones from Mary’s Bosary. 
The name of California is forever united 
with the North American Indian — the 
Mission Indians — as they are now known 
in history. The Indian and the Franciscan 
Fathers fill a unique place in the annals of 
California ; the unselfish devotion of the 
Fathers should be recorded in golden let- 
ters, for those who charge the Catholic 
church with trying to keep natives in igno- 
rance. The Franciscans first came to Cali- 
fornia in 1596, over three hundred years 
ago, but today almost every vestige of both 
Franciscan and Indian have disappeared, 
except the mission churches, which alone 


PEEFACE 


XI 


survive as monuments to a departed race. 
The churches remain as a lasting memento 
of the good Franciscan Fathers, the noblest 
band of men that has graced the pages of 
modern history. When Governor Enchan- 
dia gave orders for the secularization of the 
missions, it meant nakedness, savagery, and 
starvation for the Indian. All historians 
agree that Governor Alvarado’s rule from 
1836 to 1842 was a period of plunder and 
ruin in the Mission Indian history. The 
methods of the mission spoliation was : The 
Governor gave orders that the wheat, grain, 
tallow, hides, etc., — all products of the 
thrifty missions — should be used as public 
revenue, for public services. In other 
Avords, he robbed the Indian for private 
gain. Under the rule of Alvarado, and the 
mission robbers, and during the subsequent 
war between Mexico and the States, the sol- 
diers did pretty much as they pleased; the 
times were rife with murder and pillage. 
In 1844 GoA^ernor Pico tried to make secu- 
larization of the missions complete by sell- 
ing and leasing them to private parties. At 
last the United States Supreme Court de- 
cided that Pico had no right to sell the mis- 
sion property. Eight-minded men now sigh 


XU 


PEEFACE 


for the beneficial management of the Fran- 
ciscan Fathers. The missions have been 
abolished and the Indians who were left to 
the enlightened men of our day have passed 
away like smoke before the wind. In 1834 
there came a thunderbolt that smote the 
tried mission system, till it shook and fell a 
shattered fabric. It came in the form of a 
decree that the missions were to be snatched 
from the jurisdiction of the Franciscan 
Fathers and transferred just as they stood 
into the hands of the government. Commis- 
sionados were despatched to the missions to 
assume charge. The Indians took to the 
mountains, returned to their barbarous 
ways, or became outcasts. The Indian, 
without his good priest to control him, dis- 
appeared and simply followed his animal 
instincts. Almost every vestige of the In- 
dian is gone. The greedy whites have taken 
possession of what by right and justice be- 
longs to the Indian, 



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THE OLD MISSION BELLS OE CALIEOENIA 


Up on the grand Sierras the shadows come and go. 

And the hells of old San Gabriel are ringing here below. 
In the footsteps of the padres we pause, and faintly 
trace 

Their footprints in the valley, as they went from place 
to place. 

We see the saintly Serra, tired and worn and pale. 
Treading the narrow pathway, on the old Mission trail. 
Unmindful of the shadows, or of the noonday heat. 

He plods along the valley oft wounding weary feet. 

And the mystic night comes stealing as the padre wends 
his way; 

A warm dusk hides the valley, the mountain peaks are 
gray. 

We pause, to gaze for a little space over this hallowed, 
sacred place; 

And the bells ring out, as the sun goes down, over the 
foothills bare and brown. 

The crimson flush has faded from Sierra's massive brow. 
And the sweet tones of the Angelus are softly ringing 
now. 

We recall the days of romance, of Spanish song and tale. 
As the bells of old San Gabriel ring out across the vale. 
We see the gay senora and Spanish maiden fair. 

And the haughty senorita, with blossoms in her hair. 
And sweeping down the hillside comes a stately caval- 
cade. 

The air is filled with perfume, as the orange blossoms 
fade. 

And the bells' sweet, mystic music floats in from the 
silent past. 


xiii 


xiv OLD MISSION BELLS 

And in the twilight shadows hlends softly ivith the 
Hast. 

The radiant light has vanished over the mountains gray; 
And the hells of old San Gabriel toll out the parting 
day. 


Note. — San Gabriel Mission lies 10 miles east of Los An- 
geles, Cal. It was founded on Sept. 8, 1771, by a party con- 
sisting of Eev. Anzel Somera and Rev. Pedro Gambon, with a 
guard of ten soldiers — this was some years before the Revolu- 
tionary War. It is a most picturesque old place. It reminds 
us of the activity and watchfulness of the Catholic Church in 
spreading the Gospel everywhere on earth. The belfry was 
constructed for six bells, but for over 30 years there have been 
but four in place. The famous Padre Junipero Serra paid 
his last visit to San Gabriel Sept. 17, 1784. He then admin- 
istered confirmation. At that time there had been over a 
thousand Indians converted and baptized. Padre Dumitz, 
the last of Serra’s companions, died at San Gabriel Jan. 14, 
1811, and was buried within the church as a precaution against 
the wild Indians, who were said to number at that time over 
5,000. It is not recorded that they attacked the Mission, 
though they were known to be unfriendly. These old mission 
churches alone tell of deeds “ heroically bold,’’ and of the 
power of the Cross to send timid men into the midst of un- 
known dangers. In 1812 an earthquake threw down the tower 
and overturned the main altar, destroying the walls of the 
northeast corner. In 1817 San Gabriel had a population of 
2,000 Catholic Indians; then came secularization, and the poor 
Indians fled to their mountain homes or became outcasts. 
Everything at the missions went wrong. The Indians were 
scattered and their property wasted. At this the Indians be- 
came discouraged, and returned to their original condition. 
The church of San Gabriel is well preserved. The foundation 
and walls were built of stone and mortar. The mortar used 
w^as of such excellent quality that the building is almost as 
strong as if hewn out of solid rock. When, in 1886, the 
windows were enlarged, it was with the greatest difficulty that 
the work was done. The altar is old and quaint and adorned 


OLD MISSION BELLS 


XV 


with life-size statues of St. Francis Assisi and St. Joachim. 
In the centre is a statue of the Angel Gabriel, to whom the 
church is dedicated; also a statue of the Blessed Virgin. On 
the Epistle and Gospel sides are St. Dominic and St. Anthony 
of Padua. Under the organ loft is an old confessional, said 
to antedate the church. It is interesting on account of its odd 
workmanship and antiquity. The interior walls are decorated 
with life-size oil paintings of the apostles and saints. They 
are very old and in an excellent state of preservation. The 
old baptismal font, of hammered brass, is unique as a fine 
piece of work. It is supposed to have been brought from 
Spain. In the sacristy, besides old statuary, there are censers 
and other church vessels of copper, apparently the same age 
and workmanship as the baptismal font. San Gabriel Church, 
though not the largest in California, is certainly the most 
celebrated and one of the best preserved. That it has not 
gone to ruin is because of the excellence of the building. On 
account of its nearness to Los Angeles it is visited by thou- 
sands of tourists. Enterprising visitors whittled and par- 
tially carried away the old doors. They had to be replaced by 
nineteenth century doors. The historic belfry, with its chime 
of bells, was the inspiration of the above poem. 


THE STORY OP A MISSION INDIAN; 

OR 

SUNSHINE IN A DARK PLACE 

Knoivest thou the land where the lemon 
trees Moom? 

Where the golden orange grows, in the 
deep thicket’s gloom f 
Where a wind ever soft from the hlue 
heaven Mows, 

And the groves are of laurel, and myrtle, 
and rose? ” 

U P on the tree-top a bluebird is singing 
so loud and sweet that we wonder how 
so much melody comes from one small 
throat. The notes of the little songster ring 
out through the forest trees that rise in scat- 
tered groves on the southern slope of the 
Sierra Madre. A little Indian hoy, with his 
broad sombrero and red neckscarf, with 
bronzed face and twinkling brown eyes, 
stands shaking his pointed sombrero at the 
bird up on the tree. He whistles, and the 
little singer twitters an answer back. A big 

17 


18 


A MISSION INDIAN 


shaggy dog dashes through the underbrush 
and seems to catch the boy’s thoughts, for 
he, too, stops and watches the bird, looking 
up and barking cheerily. Then he bounds 
off, leaping and gamboling as merrily as 
the birds who are twittering and hopping 
about on the topmost branches of the trees. 
Shortly we see them again, on the old In- 
dian trail, going towards the town of Juan 
Capistrano. They stop at the ruins of an 
old adobe hut, and the boy is carefully 
watching the cliff swallows, a most indus- 
trious bird, who builds its six-inch nest in a 
few days in a way somewhat different from 
other birds, with one side flat against the 
wall. Antonio, our little Indian hero, has a 
great love for birds, and knows the habits 
and songs of most all the birds of his neigh- 
borhood. The boy and his faithful dog are 
the very best of friends, and both often stop 
on their way to watch the bright birds as 
they fly from bough to bough, twittering 
and singing among the redwoods. All save 
the eagle, so big and powerful, who flaps his 
great wings, hovering in the air, while call- 
ing to his mate. The eagle never came near 
enough for Antonio to very closely watch 
him; indeed, he was so big and large that 


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A MISSION INDIAN 


19 


the boy would rather he kept at a safe dis- 
tance. The little town, Juan Capistrano, 
toward which Antonio is walking, lies in a 
fair and smiling comitry. West are the 
rolling waters of the blue Pacific Ocean; 
east tower the grand old Sierras. As far as 
eye can reach there is a golden abundance. 
Fruit is ripe in the orchard; rosy-cheeked 
apples and brown pears hang on the trees ; 
plums and apricots shine in green leaves. 
Orange and lemon trees lie in endless rows 
before us ; farther away the corn stands in 
thick sheaves, and the meadows are full of 
busy men. The very air is redolent of 
peace and plenty. The whole country seems 
to be a veritable haven of rest. Here lies 
the land as it looked when Father Juniper o 
Serra used to pace its length from San 
Diego to Monterey. The picture is incom- 
parable as we gaze on the blue mountains 
and far-away sea. The mocking-bird pipes 
his full, richly- varied strains, and the air is 
vocal with the songs of many birds. The 
vines of white lamarch and roses climb over 
the houses, until the very gables nestle in 
bowers of flowers, a riot of color that is a 
wonder and a joy. The eucalyptus trees, 
tall and graceful, form high colonnades be- 


20 


A MISSION INDIAN 


tween which the brilliant sunshine streams. 
Dear old Capistrano ! it is full of the atmos- 
phere of romance, and the poetry of a 
pastoral people, linked by the ties of in- 
heritance and association with the history 
of bygone days. In the veins of its inhab- 
itants flows the blood of Mission soldier and 
Mission Indian. Here are pedigrees worth 
disentangling, and stories enough to stock a 
library. Its broken olive mill and crum- 
bling dovecote, and the spacious weed-grown 
courts and corridors are pathetic witnesses 
of the grandeur of the plans and purposes 
of the Mission Fathers, and also of the 
rapidity with which nature effaces the 
noblest work of human hands. J nan Capis- 
trano is teeming with historical associa- 
tions; it is surrounded by tokens of that 
strange old life which is now so completely 
a thing of the past. Centuries ago the In- 
dian lived and hunted here, and passed his 
days in x^eace and serenity. It is now high 
noon ; sweet and thrilling over the hills and 
through the valley comes the sound of the 
Angelus bell from the old mission church, 
ringing loud and clear thro’ the summer 
air, telling to the world of men that wonder 
of wonders: The Word made flesh that 


A MISSION INDIAN 


21 


dwelt among us.” It is a reminder of the 
old Catholic days of California, before 
greed and lust of gold devastated that beau- 
tiful country, when the Indians and the 
Franciscan "Fathers lived side by side in 
peace, abundance, and happiness. All 
down the coast, from Santa Barbara to San 
Diego, was once peopled by peaceable Cath- 
olic Indians. It was a wonderful power 
which the Mission Fathers acquired over 
the Indians. With but a handful of sol- 
diers they gained mastery over many tribes, 
inducing them to live about the missions, 
teaching them all useful occupations, and 
persuading them to accept the religion of 
Christ, many of them becoming faithful 
Catholics. What a difference between the 
conquest of the Mission Fathers and the 
conquests of the American soldiers. The 
Fathers came armed only with the crucifix, 
while the Americans came with guns and 
bayonets. The founding and developing of 
the California missions constitutes an epi- 
sode unique in history. The suffering and 
hardships of Father Junipero Serra and 
his fellow toilers will be a lesson fraught 
with meaning as long as men suffer and 
yearn for better things. The labor of build- 


22 


A MISSION INDIAN 


ing the churches and cloisters, with no ma- 
terial at hand, and with only the rudest of 
tools, with unskilled workmen, surrounded 
by hostile savages, seems little less than 
miraculous. Ruined and crumbling to de- 
cay as the old mission churches are, they 
form some of the most noteworthy archi- 
tecture in America. There is a softness of 
harmony about the lines of these old mis- 
sions that shows the work of loving hands 
instead of machines. Fifty years after the 
establishment of the first mission a chain of 
twenty-one churches dotted the coast val- 
leys, each within an easy day’s journey of 
the next. The Indians of the missions were 
devout Catholics, living under strict ecclesi- 
astical rule and carrying on faithfully the 
manifold occupations imposed upon them. 
The power of the missions is gone and seem- 
ingly the poor Indian with them. The 
buildings are rapidly crumbling into dust. 

But about them still clings an atmosphere 
of romance and poetry, a melancholy peace 
which is sad yet beautiful and fascinating.” 
The settling up of the country by Ameri- 
cans has changed the whole face of nature. 
The greedy whites have driven the Indians 
away from their homes like dogs. In a few 


A MISSION INDIAN 


23 


generations the old American Indian will 
be but a memory, and the opportunity to 
keep faith with him, to be just and generous 
in our dealings with him, will have passed 
by forever. The treachery and injustice of 
the whites to the poor Indians is something 
we Americans should blush to recall. 

At last it looked as if Divine Providence 
interfered and the country was shaken by a 
terrible earthquake; houses rocked to and 
fro, cracked and fell to ruin; the atmos- 
phere was filled with fine dust that was 
stifling. Steeples and churches swung like 
trees in a storm. The mighty ocean rolled 
and roared like an angry God, and the 
waters of the rivers ran as yellow as sul- 
phur. The bells of the church of San Luis 
Rey rang out as if by some invisible hand. 
The walls of the churches split, crumbled, 
and fell to ruin. Half of the neighboring 
orchards and vineyards were destroyed. 
The whisky traders to the Indians were well 
shaken and badly frightened, too ; the butch- 
ers of men who had slaughtered the Indians 
thought their last days had come. Ruins of 
this earthquake are yet to be seen at Juan 
Capistrano and other places. The comfort- 
able ranch where our little Indian hero An- 


24 


A MISSION INDIAN 


tonio Cavai lived was once a part of the 
princely possessions of the old Mexican 
family De Rocha. A tract of some one hun- 
dred acres had been purchased several years 
before our story opens by Cornelius O ’Don- 
ovan, an Irish gentleman of good birth and 
breeding, who, with his amiable and intelli- 
gent wife, had made their home here in Cali- 
fornia a perfect little paradise. Their 
house still stands embowered by the vegeta- 
tion of years, a lovely old home with its 
patio, where in the shade of the porch the 
cage of the mocking-bird still hangs and 
the nightingale sings among the roses. Mrs. 
O ’Donovan was known to the whole country- 
side for her generous heart and many char- 
ities. She was familiarly known to all her 
friends by the title of ‘‘Aunt Mary,” and a 
loving, kind woman she was to all who came 
within the radius of her happy life. Some 
years before our story opens, the good 
woman had lost both her husband and her 
only child by a fever that devastated the 
country. Being alone in the world, she 
adopted as her son a little Indian boy named 
Antonio Cavai, whom we have already met 
on the road with his dog. He was the very 
brightest little fellow in all the countryside ; 








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A MISSION INDIAN 


25 


although only ten years old, he was known 
for miles around as a boy of sterling char- 
acter. 

Antonio was born in the Saboba village, 
which was not far from Aunt Mary’s ranch. 
The village was peopled principally by In- 
dians and half-breeds. Antonio Cavai’s 
father was an educated man and captain of 
the village ; he was looked up to by the In- 
dians and much respected by the whites. 
Little Antonio boasted that his father had 
once written a letter to the President of the 
United States. We may well forgive An- 
tonio for boasting — many a white boy 
might be proud of the same. And this letter 
was to ask the Great Father of our country 
to help his tribe to keep the little patches of 
land which their labor and industry had 
made profitable. 

A scheming land-grabber, under the pro- 
tection of the government, had driven the 
poor Indians out of the village under the 
point of the bayonet. The little village had 
been made a habitable place through the in- 
dustry of the whole tribe. The Indians, 
though what the white man calls ignorant, 
rebelled in their own way against this injus- 
tice. Antonio Cavai, the Indian chief, 


26 


A MISSION INDIAN 


fought bravely for his rights, and at last 
died from the effects of wounds received in 
his encounter with the whites. As death 
was closing in upon him, he raised his dying 
eyes to his son, telling him there was a just 
God, and some day Antonio would have the 
justice that was denied to his father, and 
the Indian would some time enjoy that 
equality and fraternity that is meant by the 
brotherhood of man. The Indian chief had 
been a power among his people, and died as 
he had lived, a just and honorable man. 
Antonio had inherited the manly qualities 
of his father, and was a boy loved and re- 
spected by all who came in contact with him. 
The Indian boy had in his nature the love of 
the woods, the flowers, and the birds; he 
never tired talking about them. In him 
there was no shadow of fear; he delighted 
in doing things dangerous; he loved to dis- 
play his strength and agility. He was not 
only an apt scholar, but a devout little Cath- 
olic, too. The workmen on Aunt Mary’s 
ranch were one and all Antonio’s fast 
friends, and would go many a mile to oblige 
the kind and willing lad. His home with 
Aunt Mary was altogether a very happy 
place, and with his dog Pedro no happier 


A MISSION INDIAN 


27 


boy could be found. You may be sure that 
Antonio was good to bis dog, for Aunt Mary 
had taught him cruelty to animals was a 
contemptible thing in man or boy. Cardi- 
nal Newman has left us this bit of wisdom 
about the dumb creation: Can anything 
be more marvelous or startling, unless we 
were used to it, than that we would have a 
race of beings around us, whom we do but see, 
and as little know their state or can describe 
their interests or their destiny as we can tell 
of the inhabitants of the moon % It is a very 
overpowering thought when we fix our 
minds upon it. They are more powerful 
than man, and yet are his slaves. All is 
mystery about them.’’ The whole dumb 
creation is a wonder and a surprise to us. 
Why should we use our higher intelligence 
by being cruel? It is a pitiful thing to see 
a strong man or boy beating or starving a 
poor dumb animal. Antonio was so careful 
in his treatment of animals that many of 
them on the ranch knew him by his voice, 
because the kindliness of his gentle heart 
went out to them in kind and considerate 
treatment. Thus love and kindness to ani- 
mals led to a great good fortune in Anto- 
nio’s life, as you shall hear. He was not the 


28 


A MISSION INDIAN 


kind of a boy to treat cruelly or unkindly 
any of God’s creatures. You remember 
that pretty poem by Coleridge : 

He prayeth ivell who loveth well 
Both man and iird and heast; 

He prayeth best who loveth hest 
All things looth great and small, 

For the dear God, who loveth us. 

He made and loveth all/’ 


II 


O UT in the busy fields the tired work- 
men have now quit work for their 
midday lunch. The workers are 
most of them half-breeds, with some In- 
dians and some whites. As they file through 
the fertile fields they pass a little grotto, or 
wayside shrine, fitted into the side of a 
hill, with overhanging vines and fiowers, 
wherein is a statue of our Blessed Mother 
with the dear Christ in her arms. This is 
Aunt Mary^s beloved shrine. It is a pretty 
spot, with its vines and blossoms and flow- 
ers. As the men pass the little grotto many 
of them raise their hats, and one alone 
kneels to say a little prayer, and he is an 
Indian. This tells the tale that Catholicity 
is not quite dead, though it has been crushed 
to earth. On they go past the old church of 
Juan Capistrano, where the Franciscan 
Fathers still live, though most of their old 
church is noAV a picturesque ruin. It seems 
strange in these fast rushing days of steam 
and trolley that such an evidence of bygone 
days should still stand there to remind the 
aggressive American that this was once a 

29 


80 


A MISSION INDIAN 


Catholic country, peopled by peaceful, in- 
dustrious, and devout Indians, free from 
discords and strife. As one gazes at this 
picturesque old church we wonder what 
could have been the comings and goings of 
the people who prayed and worshiped there 
in the long ago. Our little Indian hero An- 
tonio had been carefully taught by Aunt 
Mary to ask our Blessed Mother for daily 
guidance, and indeed he was a good and de- 
voted child of Mary. He was often found 
praying before the statue in the grove, and 
no amount of scoffing ever turned Antonio 
from his devotion to our Blessed Mother. 
And the time came when she fully repaid 
him for all his childish faith and confidence 
in her. Quite near the little wayside shrine 
where Antonio went so often to pray, up on 
the top of a soft rounded hill which made 
the beautiful rolling sides of that part of 
the valley, there had been erected, in the old 
Catholic days, a large wooden cross ; it could 
be plainly seen at every turn of the road. 
There it stood, summer and winter, rain or 
shine, like a sentinel, silent and solemn, 
with outstretched arms. In the past it must 
have been a landmark to many a guileless 
traveler, and who shall say that the cross 


A MISSION INDIAN 


31 


did not bear a message of hope to many an 
idle heart journeying by? Certain it is that 
good Catholics crossed themselves when 
they first beheld it in this lonely place. The 
inroads of greedy speculators have de- 
stroyed many of the old landmarks which 
were distinctly Catholic. In the early days 
of the Mission Fathers, in the smiling sea- 
side hills, and in the fertile valleys of the 
Sierras, humble little shrines were raised to 
the Madonna. These little wayside altars, 
shaded with network of ivy and green, told 
of the Indians’ love of the Virgin Mother. 
This devotion, so fresh and simple, so ap- 
propriate to the gentle and quiet habits of 
the Indian, helped to fashion the ways and 
manners of that once savage race. There is 
a legend of a lost statue of the Virgin being 
found by Indians, after long and fruitless 
searching, by a train of radiant light, illum- 
inating the night, and concentrating its 
rays on the same spot where the statue had 
been concealed by the Franciscan Fathers 
on a night of fear and flight when the sacre- 
ligious United States troops had taken pos- 
session of their church and made military 
barracks of it. It was told among the In- 
dians that over this spot fiocks of beautiful 


32 


A MISSION INDIAN 


singing birds hovered days and days (which 
might have been angels for aught they knew) . 
They found the image hidden under a 
thorny shrub that blossomed nowhere but 
there, and the blossoms were redolent with 
perfumes of the wildwood. The oldest in- 
habitant tells the tale that this same thorny 
shrub was ever in riotous blossom the whole 
year round. The Indians loved the Blessed 
Mother, and devotion to her was very 
marked among them. Antonio Cavai had 
the greatest faith in the Virgin Mother; 
many a prayer went up to heaven from the 
loving, innocent heart of this little Indian 
boy. 


Ill 


A BOY’S shrill whistle pierces the air 
and echoes back from the hills. ‘ ^ Hi ! 
Hi there ! Pedro ! Whoo ! Oo ! O ! ” — 
and a brown shaggy dog comes racing down 
the road. He dances and leaps, now here, 
now there; he jumps on Antonio’s shoulder 
and whisks about his feet; then he stands 
still, with the most knowing kind of a look 
in his intelligent eyes. Pedro’s eyes almost 
spoke. There he stood looking at Antonio, 
almost saying: What’s the matter? What 
do you want with me? ” Hurrah! Hur- 
rah! ” cried out the lusty voice of Antonio, 
‘‘ we’re going a-fishing with Jack Hart. 
Look sharp there, Pedro! ” The dog did 
not wait for another word, but dashed oif 
like a flash. Who can say that Pedro did 
not understand? He surely did, for when 
Antonio got up to the shed where he kept 
his bait and fishing tackle there stood the 
dog vigorously wagging his tail and saying, 
as well as a dog could say it, I am ready.” 
Antonio laughed in merry, guileless fashion 
at the dog, for the poor creature almost 
shook his tail off in his efforts to express his 

33 


34 


A MISSION INDIAN 


pleasure. As the boy and dog walked up 
the garden path leading to the house they 
found dear Aunt Mary had a fine lunch 
fixed up, so dainty and nice, in a little bas- 
ket. Pedro ran before, then behind, and 
around and around, barking as merrily as 
could be. The basket is placed in the happy 
dog^s mouth, and he carries it with great 
care, and prances ofi with his head high in 
the air, as became a dog on such an import- 
ant mission. Aunt Mary stands on the 
porch looking at them, with her kind, whole- 
some face melting into a pleasant smile. 

I have some broth, said she, in this 
little pail for Grandma Hart. You know, 
Antonio, she has been ill, and you must go 
a little out of your way to bring it to her.^’ 
“All right! ’’ chirped up the bright boy. 
“ You never forget anybody. Auntie. I am 
so glad to bring it to Gran’ma Hart. The 
last time I brought her some she said there 
was nothing tasted so good as your broth. 
Aunt Mary laughs cheerily at this. 

So off they gaily start on their fishing 
trip, Antonio, with his fishing rod slung 
over his shoulder, whistling as only a happy 
boy can whistle. Pedro skipped along with 
a racing air and seemed to realize that he 


A MISSION INDIAN 


35 


was an important factor in the expedition. 
Antonio talked to his dog as if he could talk 
too ; he talked of the rabbits with their self- 
betraying tails that scudded in and out of 
the brush — and there were armies of them ; 
of the squirrels that frisked and frolicked 
in the trees; of the merry birds of bright 
and beautiful plumage that sailed above 
their heads. Hi there, Pedro! what are 
you about*? cried Antonio. Pedro forgot 
he had the lunch basket in his mouth and 
started after a rabbit as if the speed of a 
rabbit was the most important thing in life. 
Over went the basket and out fell the glass 
jar filled with nice fresh tea of Aunt Mary’s 
own making, but, thanks to the careful way 
things were fixed, the jar and the goodies 
were safely replaced and no harm done. 
Pedro returned with a kind of a hang-dog 
look ; he knew he had made a mistake, but, 
like the wise dog he was, he took up his 
basket again and soberly started off, with- 
out even a bark; his head stiff and erect just 
like a patrolman, looking neither right nor 
left, but straight ahead. There is no little 
boy or girl but will say that Pedro was right 
this time. Just then there was heard a 
boy’s whistle, sounding like the echo of 


36 


A MISSION INDIAN 


some happy thought, and then came a wild 
hurrah from Jack Hart, who had come up 
the road to meet them. Hello, Antonio,’^ 
shouted the lusty voice of Jack. Pedro, like 
the friendly dog that he was, made another 
break when he saw Jack, and was about to 
make a dash of welcome at him, but oh, the 
wisdom of that same dog ! he stopped just in 
time to save the lunch basket. This made 
Antonio remember Gran’ma HarPs broth 
in the little pail. Poor old gran’ma was sit- 
ting alone in the open door. ^^Ah! said 
she, in the wheeziest kind of a voice, it is 
so good of your auntie to remember an old 
woman like me. She is always thinking of 
others and doing for others. She surely 
lives that ‘ golden rule ’ that has been talked 
so much about and preached about but very 
seldom lived. Do not fail to stop here, An- 
tonio, on your way back from fishing, as I 
have some fiowers to send up to Our Lady’s 
shrine. You know tomorrow is one of her 
feast days, and I want the fiowers to deck 
her altar.” I won’t forget, gran’ma,” 
said the happy boy; we will stop and 
bring you some of our big fish.” So off go 
the merry boys, after giving gran’ma a 
cheery good-by. 


A MISSION INDIAN 


37 


There was the sun shining and the birds 
singing, as the sun only shines and the 
birds only sing when boys are off on a 
frolic. It took the jolly boys but a short 
time to get to the water. They give a wild 
hurrah as they catch the salt sea smell and 
hear the cry of the gull. They startle the 
lone fisherman ofi on the rocks. The 
mana that catcha the fisha ’’ is not inclined 
to be sociable with the boys, so they leave 
him alone in his glory.” Small boats are 
dancing merrily over the water. Off in the 
distance is seen the smoke of the San Fran- 
cisco boats and steamers on the way to San 
Diego. The water is blue and peaceful, and 
the boys are happy. Not far from the shore 
they see a school of fiying king-fish skim- 
ming over the water with the lightness of a 
bird. This is a treat, for the boys do not 
often see the king-fish so near land. It is 
not very long before Antonio and Jack are 
ready with handline and rod, and soon they 
land small yellow-tails and rock-bass. 
Schools of tiny fish glide back and forth 
near the rocks, but they are too cute to be 
caught. Floating jelly-fish and sprawling 
star-fish sweep upon the beach with the blue 
and green sea-weed. And the rocks are 


38 


A MISSION INDIAN 


alive with strange little creatures of the 
deep. Standing on the rocks with the gulls 
wheeling above, and the pelican and cor- 
morant winging their way far out to sea, 
and the fresh salt air, with the splash of the 
waves in their faces, the boys were filled 
with joy so contagious that Pedro partook 
of their joy and gladness by jumping into 
the water and then out of the water. Such 
fun and sport as they had! Pedro was in- 
deed no small part of the fun. When he 
jumped in the water there was a fresh burst 
of merriment from the boys ; when he jumps 
out there is another peal of merry laughter. 
Then he runs off to play with the Mother 
Carey chickens that live in crowds along the 
beach; he frisked and played with the fish 
that lay on the shore to dry, and was the 
very j oiliest dog in the woAd. The louder 
the boys laughed and shouted, the more 
Pedro leaped and jumped and barked. 
Never were there happier companions and 
never was more fun squeezed into a shorter 
space of time. Come, Pedro, and hustle 
there; we are going home.’’ “ Oh, oh,” 
sang out Jack, we won’t go home until 
morning.” At this the dog redoubles his 
barking and his gambols. And, like the 


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A MISSION INDIAN 


39 


high-minded dog that he was, he galloped 
after them joyfully. Jolly dogs are a good 
deal like happy boys, they love to make a 
noise and romp and tear around. Off they 
go, so bravely, on their way home. This was 
a fishing trip the boys would never forget. 
Presently we hear two lusty young voices 
singing an old melody as they and the dog 
trot merrily along. 

Song: The shy is hlue, the waters too, 
La-loo-la-loo! 

Here^s to you — and my dog too, 
La-loo-la-loo! 


IV 


T he blue waters of the Pacific Ocean 
lie peaceful and tranquil, and the set- 
ting sun is throwing a radiance of 
glorious beauty all over nature as the boys 
and Pedro start home from their fishing. 
Antonio and Jack were startled, and looked 
with wonder, and indeed with terror, as 
they saw a coal-black horse, with dilated 
nostrils and flashing eye, dash madly 
through the open brush. The boys huddled 
together near the hedge, to get out of the 
way of the riderless horse. He was a noble 
animal of that new breed that was just find- 
ing its way into California from the ports 
of the southern shore. The horse dashes 
rapidly by and is lost in the distance. So 
few horsemen pass that way that the boys 
are alarmed, and hasten to look for the 
rider. No human being was in sight, so the 
boys forgot very speedily the incident and 
went on their way home. As they pass over 
the railroad beyond the bluff, they see men 
in the brush shooting rabbits, which was 
nothing unusual. Pedro started off in his 
merry fashion to see the sport. Soon there 

40 


A MISSION INDIAN 


41 


was the sharp report of a rifle. Just at that 
instant Antonio Cavai was frightened 
nearly out of his senses by the loud bark of 
Pedro. Then came the shrill cry of a 
wounded animal, and, whether by accident 
or what, poor Pedro was shot in the leg, and 
a bad shot it was, too. When Antonio saw 
what was done he upbraided the man for his 
cruelty. The boys never forgot the brutal 
reply of the man, who called the dog an old 
cur and other ugly names. He was a white 
man talking to a little Indian boy, who 
might have taught the man many a useful 
lesson. It is strange to detect the savage in 
civilized man and to observe the hold of 
some savage traits on men who are boastful 
of their superiority. The poor dog could 
not stir, and lay moaning helplessly. It was 
nearing sundown and the sky was cloudless, 
but the sun was slowly creeping down tow- 
ards the mountains, which made a ragged 
edge of the horizon, and the foothills were 
already deeply shadowed by the first touch 
of twilight. 

Around them on every side stretched the 
wide open country, wrapped in sunshine 
and in silence. The boys looked sadly away 
towards the mountains which lay passive 


42 


A MISSION INDIAN 


and serene, and thought God had forgotten 
them. The suifering dog lay there in the 
gathering gloom, moaning pitifully. The 
blackbird were beginning their evening 
songs in their roosting places among the 
cottonwoods. The meadow lark by the road- 
side sounds its loud, sweet, flutelike call ; all 
else is silence. The air was so still that one 
longed for some sound to relieve the tension. 
Then the boys heard a little low wail or 
moan, which seemed to be the wind in the 
sage-brush. Then a robin sounded a loud 
cheery note. A butterfly fluttered past on 
noiseless wings, and the two little boys were 
bitterly weeping. The men had gone off 
and left them alone in what was a wilder- 
ness; no house within sight and no way of 
getting home. ‘‘ I would not let you suffer, 
Pedro, if I could help it,’’ said Antonio, 
with a great sob in his throat. Be a good 
dog and we will get you home as soon as we 
can.” Pedro feebly wagged his tail when 
he saw his little friends standing over him. 

I never thought,” said Jack Hart, that 
I could feel so bad about a dog. Oh, oh! 
Whatever will we do"? ” They tied up the 
wounded leg, from which the blood was 
freely flowing, with their handkerchiefs. 


A MISSION INDIAN 


43 


and tried as best they could to relieve the 
poor dog, who was suffering great pain. 
The two boys were distracted and grew 
quite helpless in their sorrow. They were 
so far from home and no way of getting 
help, and Pedro could not even stand. 

Oh, my,’’ said Antonio, what shall we 
do? What shall we do? It will soon be 
dark night. Poor Pedro; I know he will 
die. If w^e were only home Aunt Mary 
would cure him, I Imow she would.” The 
kind boy patted the suffering dog’s head, 
but despaired of ever getting him home 
alive. “Antonio,” said Jack, with a great 
choking sob, “ no one in the world can hear 
or help us; let us pray to our Blessed 
Mother. Gran’ma says she always helps us 
when no one else will.” “ Oh, yes,” said 
Antonio, “ why did I not think of that my- 
self? You say the prayer, Antonio, and I 
will join you.” The two weeping boys 
knelt and prayed with an earnestness they 
never before felt. There in the still woods, 
and in the silence of the summer day, they 
raised their eyes to Heaven; clasping their 
little hands, they prayed aloud to the 
Queen of Heaven : “ Dear Mother Mary! 
%ve clon^t know tohether dogs go to Heaven 


44 


A MISSION INDIAN 


or not. We would ie happier if we were 
sure they did. We pray thee help poor 
Pedro, Let him live and tve will he so 
thankful. Show us what to do, dear, dear 
Mother. Pedro was always such a good dog. 
Amen, amen.’’ 

The boys had just arisen from their knees 
when the thought came to Antonio that by 
going over to the wagon road he might hail 
some stray ranchman on his way home from 
town, and so take Pedro and themselves 
back home. There was not much time to 
spare before dark, as the sun had begun to 
set, and looked like a great ball of fire, fall- 
ing into the blue waters of the Pacific. An- 
tonio ran over to the wagon road, but to his 
sorrow no one was in sight. Coming back 
to the brush near where Pedro lay moaning, 
he ^vas startled by seeing a man lying in the 
brush, with disheveled hair, and a face that 
wore the pallor of death. The man had a 
different look from the many tramps that 
Antonio had seen on their way from Los 
Angeles to San Diego. If he was a tramp 
he was not an ordinary one. As Antonio 
approached, the man called out to him in a 
voice weak and faint, “ Give me a drink, 
little boy; for the love of God, give me a 













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A MISSION INDIAN 


45 


drink. I am dying, I fear. ’ ’ The frightened 
child glanced at the man in quick surprise. 
Give me a drink,’’ again cries the man, 
for God’s sake! ” It took but a few mo- 
ments for the kind-hearted boy to run to the 
lunch basket and take out the jar of tea, 
which had not been opened by the boys. 
The tea was quickly swallowed by the 
thirsty man. Dear child,” said he, that 
drink was life to me. I have lain here I 
know not how long, dying for a drink; not 
able to stand on my feet. I heard your 
prayer, my boy ; you are a kind and pitiful 
lad. O God, help me! I am drifting, I 
know not whither. Have you seen my horse, 
boys ? He took fright at the cars and threw 
me violently to the ground. Have you seen 
the horse ? ” We have been watching our 
poor dog,” said the boys, “ but we will find 
your horse by and by. ” ‘ ^ Let me raise your 
head*? ” said the thoughtful Indian boy, and, 
taking off his jacket, Antonio placed it com- 
fortaWy under the man’s head. It is too 
bad you are so far from Aunt Mary’s ranch. 
She is so good and kind. She would help 
you, I know. Oh, dear, if we were only 
there, Pedro would be all right, too. ’ ’ What 
was the boys’ delight when they heard the 


46 


A MISSION INDIAN 


rumbling sound of horses and a wagon, and 
there to be sure was Fred Fisher, their 
neighbor, coming down the road with his 
team of two horses. He gladly stopped to 
give them a lift. When Antonio told of the 
sick man in the brush, Fred, who was a kind- 
hearted man, would not leave the stranger 
sick and alone by the wayside. After some 
persuasion the sick man was induced to take 
a seat in the wagon. After getting Pedro 
comfortable on the wagon floor they started 
for home. It was not long before Aunt 
Mary’s cheerful little home came into view. 
She had been anxiously watching for them, 
as Pedro ’s accident had delayed them some 
hours behind time. Wlien Aunt Mary’s 
kind, motherly eyes rested on the stranger 
she saw that he was a very sick man, for his 
face looked like death. She would not hear 
of his passing her house with no place to 
shelter him. He brought in to a clean, 
comfortable bed, and was almost helpless 
with pain. MHiispering to Aunt Mary, he 
said : Grood woman, you may regret this ; I 

am a stranger, and perchance an enemy of 
yours.” Hush! ” said Aunt Mary, Do 
you not remember the Saviour’s words, ^ In- 
as-much as you have done it unto the least 


A MISSION INDIAN 


47 


of these my brethren, you have done it unto 
me ’ ? You are needy ; that is your passport 
to my house. God sent you here.” 


V 


A unt MARY had carefully bandaged 
and strapped poor Pedro’s leg, and, 
after a good deal of care and nursing, 
he was soon sleeping the “ sleep of the just.” 
It was not long before he was well. But the 
poor dog carried the mark to his grave of 
man’s inhumanity, for his leg was short- 
ened and made him limp and hop, so that he 
was always quite lame. Like the good dog 
that he was, he tried to forget it, and always 
seemed happy. It was surprising to see 
how quickly the dog responded to the care 
that loving hands had given him. Dear, 
true, faithful Pedro ! How he barked and 
romped and played, telling in every way 
that a dog could that he was grateful for 
what had been done for him. When An- 
tonio tells Aunt Mary of his little prayer to 
our Lady, and how soon it was answered, 
she clasps the little boy in her loving arms 
and tells him that he is a boy after her own 
heart. The sick man for many days had 
been quite a helpless invalid, and in his 
fever and delirium raved and talked of his 
past life in a way that indicated that the 

48 


A MISSION INDIAN 


49 


poor man had gone through sad and bitter 
experiences. There was enough to tell 
Aunt Mary the sick man’s life had been 
through thorny paths and full of sore trou- 
bles, for which reason he seemed anxious to 
hide his name and identity. There were 
days and nights when he lay entirely uncon- 
scious. Then came vague, misty feelings of 
one awaking from a long disturbed sleep, 
and the sick man awoke again to life and 
reason. He sat for hours in the deep shade 
of the eucalyptus trees, watching the white 
feathery clouds as they glimmered through 
the dense foliage which hung above his head. 
Strange, vague thoughts were flitting 
through his mind, of the coincidence that 
placed him where he now found himself, 
and his countenance was a study to behold. 
He rises and walks impatiently, up and 
down the garden walk. He looks about like 
one who is pursued; he walks hastily down 
under the boughs of the hanging trees, lifts 
his hat from his head, and looks up at the 
blue sky. Something like a prayer falls 
from his lips out into the silent air. With 
tender consideration Aunt Mary nursed 
him back to life and hope. He had been 
able to sit up in the sunshine for several 


50 


A MISSION INDIAN 


days, and today lie had returned from what 
he called a grand survey of the country. 
He was now quite recovered. Early one 
morning Aunt Mary hurried to the sick 
man’s room to give him some kind atten- 
tion. What was her amazement to find the 
room empty and the stranger gone ! On the 
table lay a letter to her, in which he said: 

Best and kindest of women: Do not think 
me ungrateful. Some time you will knoiv 
why I left under cover of the night. Your 
charity and goodness have made a new man 
of me. The dread that you cast on the 
waters will some day return to you. How 
strange are the ways of Providence, that 
through the whimpering of a wounded dog 
I should he led hack to the God of my youth! 
Thank God there are such women as you 
left in this sad old tvo^id! Accept the heart- 
felt gratitude of an unfortunate man,” 

Can you imagine Aunt Mary’s sadness 
and surprise? Thus the stranger passed 
out of her life. Let us hope the impress of 
Aunt Mary’s good, useful life and charac- 
ter were left upon him, and amid the strife 
and turmoil of the world he would carry this 
blessing with him. The days and the weeks 
slipped by, and Aunt Mary’s life, as usual. 



Tfik© i5 s ® Jni 

IPiriesIl 



A MISSION INDIAN 


51 


was full of good deeds and kindness to all 
who came within the radiance of her happy 
life. There are many souls like her in 
everyday life of whom the world knows 
nothing. What lessons they teach us — to 
be faithful in the homely duties of life, to 
bear patiently our crosses, and to have fer- 
vent trust in God’s faithful doings with His 
children. 

Antonio was such an apt scholar and 
such a clever lad, with the promise of 
perfected plans to send him to a college of 
the Vincentian Fathers in Los Angeles. 
And now we find Antonio happily settled at 
St. Vincent’s College. His sturdy, noble 
bearing and manly character soon won for 
him the love and respect of pupils and 
teachers alike. He received special com- 
mendation from the head professor for pro- 
ficiency in his studies and for his gentle- 
manly deportment. Antonio had fully 
repaid Aunt Mary for her motherly care 
bestowed upon him, as well as for her abso- 
lute confidence in him. Being a just and 
wise woman, she wished to give the Indian 
boy a chance to make his mark in the world. 
She knew that many white lads could not 
compete with him in his intelligent observa- 


52 


A MISSION INDIAN 


tion of men and things. He was wide awake 
to all that was going on in the busy world 
into which his college life had brought him. 
The nineteenth century discoveries and in- 
ventions were a continual source of wonder 
and amazement to him. Telegraphy and 
steam were a never-failing field for his in- 
vestigating mind, and many were the 
crude contrivances he made with his own 
hands out of the odd m^aterials that school- 
boys find ever at hand. He was helped in 
his work and encouraged in every way by 
the Fathers of the college, who saw in the 
young boy the promise of a vigorous and 
sturdy manhood. His intelligent and active 
mind dwelt on the wrongs and injustice of 
his race. He was proud to show the world 
what one of his race could achieve. He felt 
that he was honoring the brave and loyal 
chief whom he called father by being faith- 
ful to his church and its holy teachings, and 
again by making the most of this splendid 
opportunity that had come into his life, that 
of getting a Christian education at the 
hands of such efficient loyal sons of the 
church as the Vincentian Fathers. His 
teachers had marked and outlined a special 
line of studies for him when a sudden call 


A MISSION INDIAN 


53 


from Aunt Mary obliged him to leave the 
college. With a sad and disappointed heart 
he started for the old home, to learn that 
Aunt Mary was on the eve of quitting the 
old place and all its tender associations; in 
fact, that untoward circumstances were 
forcing her out of her possessions. 

A fearful experience had come into the 
life of Aunt Mary. She had always been a 
woman of means, and as she looked over her 
broad acres she often said, Well, there is 
enough and to spare.’’ But one morning 
the day was darkened for poor Aunt Mary, 
and this comfortable old world seemed to 
rock and shake under her very feet. Strange 
documents and stranger legal phrases were 
read to her, telling her that her title to her 
land and her home was illegal, and that she 
was now homeless and must leave the place 
she loved so well. It was some time before 
she could really understand the import of it 
all; but as one by one the workmen of her 
ranch were leaving her, and a desolate and 
neglected look was settling down on her 
once thriving place, the dreaded reality 
faced her, and now she must look the fact 
in the face and act accordingly. It was a 
hard and bitter trial to find herself in old 


54 


A MISSION INDIAN 


age without a roof to call her own. The 
grotto with its most hallowed associations 
and every inch of ground were dear to her. 
It was like a death blow to Aunt Mary. She 
seemed like one dazed ; hope died out of her 
life. It was really pathetic to see the once 
cheerful woman drooping like a withered 
flower. She sits at the western window, 
bathed in tears, and watching the strangely 
beautiful effects of the setting sun, she is 
plunged in grief and sorrow over her sud- 
denly changed prospects. She seemed ut- 
terly incapable of action; she got up and 
walked around like a woman who had much 
to do but was doing it all in her sleep. The 
sun has dropped like a ball of Are in the 
tranquil waters of the ocean, and darkness 
settles down on her home and on her life. 
The hardest-borne trials are those which 
are never chronicled in any earthly record, 
but are suffered every day. Her face looked 
as if all the sorrows of the world had been 
crushed into it. Burying her head in her 
hands, she sobs and cries as if her very 
heart was breaking. Just as this dark cloud 
is hovering over his old home Antonio re- 
turns. His presence is like a cheery sun- 
beam in this desolate and dreary hour. 


VI 


T he morning of Easter Day is dawn- 
ing pink on tire white sandhills. The 
faintest flush of light shone on the 
peaks of San Carlos, which shut in the vil- 
lage of Saboba. As the light grows strong 
over the hills we can discern the adobe huts 
of the Indians. We hear the sounds of 
awakening day, and the sun comes up over 
the tops of the tall redwoods, lighting up 
the bunches of the red manzanita berries 
which lie near the fields of yellow mustard, 
beside clumps of brown chaparral. It is a 
scene to delight the heart and eye of an 
artist. As the sun comes over the moun- 
tains it throws its beams of burnished gold 
far over the old picturesque town of Capis- 
trano. The birds are in the trees and in the 
hedges. Their songs well up in a glorious 
melody. The bells of the old mission church 
are sending their chimes of Easter gladness 
all over the surrounding country. People 
talk of the risen Christ and of that long-ago 
time when the dear Christ walked and 
talked with men, when the touch of His 
hand brought health to the sick and peace to 

55 




56 


A MISSION INDIAN 


the sorrowing. Oh that we of today might 
have lived in that far-away time ! The good 
Franciscan Fathers are doing all in their 
power to make this a glad Easter ; there are 
flowers everywhere in the old church, such 
flowers as only southern California pro- 
duces. Oh, the riotous blossoming of the 
lovely flowers everywhere in this land of 
glorious sunshine! 

The flowers looU upward in every place 
In this beautiful land of ours, 

And dear as the smile on an old friend^s 
face 

Is the smile of the bright, bright flow- 
ers/^ 

On many squalid adobe huts the light of 
Easter dawned clear and bright. And the 
angels whispered words of hope and com- 
fort to poor Aunt Mary, whose heart today 
was sad and lonely, and whose cross seemed 
greater than she could bear. As the old 
church bells ring out their gladness, the 
people are coming into the church in small 
groups from all over the hillsides. Aunt 
Mary and Antonio are slowly toiling over 
the old Indian trail on the hill. Her cheeks 


A MISSION INDIAN 


57 


were flushed and her timid eyes were brave 
and brilliant, like the eyes of one who had 
been on the Mount of Sorrows asking fate 
that awful question: Why are we mortals 
sorrowful? Though no outward circum- 
stance could dim the radiance of her sunny 
soul, yet she was now unspeakably sad. 
The boy tries to divert her attention by 
speaking of the beautiful sunshiny day. To 
the Indian there is a divine message in the 
colors of the rising sun and a benediction in 
the notes of the rolling waters. He talks of 
the day and its meaning to the Catholic 
heart. She listens in an absent sort of a 
mood, and seems glad when they reach the 
door of the little church. The worshipers 
are not numerous; most of them are half- 
breeds, with some whites and Indians. In 
the nave of the church knelt a curiously 
mixed congregation. It is, indeed, a motley 
group that gathers in this little country 
church, but all are of one mind to honor the 
risen Christ, and over all shines the glori- 
ous Easter morning light. Antonio Cavai 
always got into a little corner by himself, in 
order to be more recollected, and there hum- 
bly kneeling, with his eyes cast down, he 
prayed with the most edifying fervor, and 


58 


A MISSION INDIAN 


with a devotion that we do not often see in 
some of the splendid cathedrals of onr great 
country. When the priest held np the Sa- 
cred Host a holy trembling seized Antonio, 
his lip quivered, his face lighted up; he 
bows his head in love and adoration. Anto- 
nio ’s tender piety attracted to him the at- 
tention and esteem of the few Franciscan 
Fathers who were left at the old mission 
church, for was not Antonio Cavai a living 
witness of what the Catholic faith and the 
Fathers had done to uplift the Indian race ‘F 
Father Franconi in a simple, quiet talk tells 
the listening, hungry souls of Christ’s 
promises. His earnest words re-echo 
through the arches of the old church. 
“ Heaven and earth shall pass away, but 
Christ’s words will never pass away. His 
promise is for you and for me,” said the 
good padre. His tones floated, sweet, full, 
and thrilling, into the silent listeners’ ears. 

The words of Christ were ever full of 
hope and promise. ^ Be of good cheer ’ was 
His counsel to the Apostles. Courage, dear 
ones, courage! The mists will rise and the 
dark night will pass. Trust the loving Sav- 
iour; trust Him through the darkness, and 
through the mists, up the hard ways, across 


A. C ap IT 






A MISSION INDIAN 


59 


the hills, and in the darkness of the night. 
There is no sorrow so bitter but the en- 
deavor to heal another’s wounds will 
sweeten it; there are many bitter sorrows, 
but hidden somewhere is a lasting peace.” 
This came like a personal message to Aunt 
Mary, as she sat with bowed head and an 
aching heart, looking for light where all 
seemed dark. The padre stands on the 
quaint old altar and gives to the Imeeling 
people his parting blessing, and they sepa- 
rate for their respective homes with the 
peace of God shining on their happy faces. 

As Antonio and Aunt Mary emerge from 
the portals of the old church they are ac- 
costed by a strange gentleman, who, with hat 
in hand, respectfully addresses Aunt Mary : 

Do you not know me, Mrs. O’Donovan? 
Look at me, dear, kind woman. Do you not 
remember the sick man you nursed and 
cared for three summers ago? I am he.” 
Aunt Mary was indeed surprised, and held 
out her hand in greeting. You brought 
me back,” said he, not only to health, but 
back to the God of my youth, and to a life of 
honesty and integrity, and back to the 
church of my youth. I have come out of my 
way a good many miles to hear Mass this 


60 


A MISSION INDIAN 


morning, and here by chance I have met 
you, though I was on my way to seek you. 
I have much, my good woman, to say to you 
and can hardly wait to reach your home. I 
must talk to you alone. I have a confession 
to make to you, which Antonio’s young, in- 
nocent ears must not hear. Your kindness, 
dear woman, and the example of this faith- 
ful little Indian boy have made me once 
more a good Catholic. I was brought up by 
a careful mother in the Catholic faith, but 
fell away from the church in my careless 
manhood. ” ‘ ^ W ell, well, ’ ’ said Aunt Mary, 
I never expected to see you again.” “ It 
was only after many delays,” said the 
stranger, that I got here at last. It 
seemed as if the fates were against my ever 
getting here to look on your good, honest 
face again. ” ^ ^ Ah, ’ ’ sighed Aunt Mary, ^ ^ I 
have fallen on sad, sad days since you were 
last here.” They had now reached the door 
of the once happy home. The neglected and 
cheerless look on the once thriving place 
had not escaped the stranger’s eyes. As 
they sit together in the well-remembered 
little sitting-room, the stranger is greatly 
affected b}^ all the thoughts that come surg- 
ing through his brain. “ I feel,” said he. 


A MISSION INDIAN 


61 


“ like bending my knees to yon, for your 
kind, womanly nature and good Catholic 
heart have been the cause of my turning 
from an unscrupulous, scheming man of the 
world into an honest, decent fellow. Let me 
tell you, dear Mrs. O ’Donovan, the very day 
you took me into your house I had ridden 
down on my horse from San Luis Rey to 
make a survey of land which I with others 
had purchased, which included your fine 
ranch. We had intended driving all the 
settlers ofl the land. You know it does not 
need much of a legal quibble for land-grab- 
bers to get possession here in Southern Cal- 
ifornia. I know,” said the stranger, we 
cannot balance life with money, but I want 
to do what is just and right to make up for 
what you have done for me. You see, Mrs. 
O’Donovan, how God has taken care of you. 
Not one inch of your land shall be taken 
from you. Here are your legal papers, all 
signed and recorded and settled by order of 
the court. It has taken me some time to 
undo the injustice we had attempted, but, 
buying off the other men, I have succeeded 
in securing your place for you free from all 
incumbrances.” 

Tears of joy and gratitude fill Aunt 


62 


A MISSION INDIAN 


Mary^s eyes. She cannot speak; she can 
only offer him her hand, which he reverently 
kisses. My leaving so hastily in the 
night, said the stranger, seemed ungrate- 
ful, but at midnight I remembered that day 
was an important date which closed up the 
matters in the courts ; there was no way but 
to meet the northbound cars at Carlsbad, at 
three o ’clock in the morning. I was in a per- 
fect frenzy of mind when I found out that 
the very woman I was going to rob and plun- 
der was treating me like an angel, and had 
saved my life. It seemed a fitting thing for 
me to hide myself under cover of the night. 
The remembrance of that little Indian boy ’s 
prayer, there alone in the woods, is some- 
thing never to be forgotten, and your good- 
ness and tenderness has followed me like a 
benediction from my dead mother’s grave. 
There is no knowing what might have be- 
come of me but for you and Antonio. 
Coming forth from this struggle I felt like 
one regenerated, and I, who for years had 
neglected the duties of my church, went at 
once to confession as soon as I got to Los 
Angeles. It would be impossible to tell you 
of my struggles, and of the peace of mind 
I now have.” My good brother,” said 


A MISSION INDIAN 


63 


Aunt Mary, you have been ungrateful 
towards your God in having rejected His 
love in the sacraments of His church, but 
surely He has given you great proofs of His 
mercy and watchful care.’’ When I 
think,” said the stranger, of my haughty 
character, its avarice and greed, it is mar- 
velous what God has done for me.” 

In the silence and hush of the evening the 
stranger told Aunt Mary the story of his 
life, which was indeed strange and startling. 
Antonio was called into the privacy of their 
conversation, and was told the astonishing 
news that the stranger was a man of wealth, 
and that he had come to do all that money 
and a grateful heart could do to make 
happy and contented the lives of those who 
were instrumental in saving him from 
death and starvation by the roadside, and 
leading him back to the God of his youth. 
At first Antonio could not understand it all, 
but like a fiash he remembered that now all 
his prayers to our Blessed Mother were 
answered. The good that he had so fer- 
vently prayed for was now dawning upon 
them. 


64 


A MISSION INDIAN 


Pray, though the gift you ask for 
May never comfort your fears, 
May never repay your longings. 
Yet pray and ivith hopeful tears: 
An hour, not that you long for. 

But diviner, will come some day. 
Your eyes are too dim. to see it. 

Yet watch, and wait, and pray.” 










9 1 ^ 4 . t 


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